Vinnie’s face was pale and lifeless as she sat at the counsel table next to Blackstone.
Then her lawyer rose to address the judge.
“Your Honor,” Blackstone argued. “Canada has up to now not required a passport for American citizen border crossings. This court would have reason to be alarmed if she had attempted to leave the country through the use of a forged passport or through some other illegal means. But that is not the case here.”
“That doesn’t give me much comfort,” the judge shot back. “Her attempt to enter Canada was, itself, illegal. It violated my bail restrictions. My bail order. Professor Blackstone, please…give me one reason why she should not be denied her liberty and locked into a jail cell until trial.”
“The purpose of bail, Your Honor, is ultimately, and always, to ensure that the defendant will show up for all required court appearances. And, of course, will show up for trial. Yet there is not one aspect of my client’s actions at the Canadian border that indicates that she was intending to avoid showing up for her trial.”
“You haven’t told me,” the judge pointed out, “exactly what she was doing, trying to slip into Canada like that. Why did she do it? Why?”
That was a question that Blackstone could have answered. He could have told the judge that Vinnie wanted to meet with Lord Dee, who was planning on being in Quebec on political business.
But that was a point he could not afford to make. After all, Lord Dee was a person already under suspicion. Vinnie’s plans for a rendezvous with Dee might slightly incline the judge to reconsider not revoking her bail, but only if the judge determined that her meeting with Lord Dee was intended to be entirely innocent. On the other hand, that was a risky gamble. What if Hartz then used that intended rendezvous with Dee as further proof of an ongoing conspiracy?
Blackstone couldn’t afford to take that chance.
“The defense cannot provide any further details at this time,” Blackstone said, “on Ms. Archmont’s reasons for wanting to temporarily enter Canada.”
“Then bail is hereby revoked,” the judge announced, “and Vinnie Archmont is remanded to the custody of the U.S. Marshal Service for confinement in a suitable federal facility until the time of trial.”
“And my motion,” Hartz said, rising quickly and leaning on his cane, “regarding my request to advise the jury of the defendant’s attempt to flee the United States jurisdiction? Will the court grant that motion as well?”
The judge eyed Vinnie, then surveyed Blackstone’s face for a moment. Then he ruled.
“I will take that under advisement,” the judge said. “Until the time of trial. I will announce my decision on that matter at that time, and not before.”
Then he gaveled the proceeding to an end.
Vinnie was led away in handcuffs by the marshals. As she was escorted out, she turned her head and quickly threw a confused and anxious look back to J.D. Blackstone. Then the side door to the courtroom was opened by the federal guards, and Vinnie was whisked out and the door slammed behind her.
Henry Hartz had a smug look on his face as he gathered up his file. Blackstone was tempted to fire off a caustic comment to his opponent, but he refrained. He was banking on something else. A chance to have something substantive and ominous to tell Hartz. But that was going to depend on what was waiting for him at his office.
Blackstone hurried into the law office just as Jason was finishing a summary of the comings and goings of the key players who had access to Horace Langley’s office before and after his murder.
“I’m just finishing up this list,” Jason said over his shoulder. He was at the computer workstation in the law library typing furiously.
“Print it out and bring it into my office when you’re done,” Blackstone said and then hustled down the hallway toward his office, but he stopped momentarily in front of Julia’s office. She was poring over a pile of records.
“I’m going over the statistical data on Vinnie,” Julia said, looking up. “And I did have a question on something. Maybe you can answer it—our public record search turned up a petition for name change that she filed. She had her last name changed from Wilson to Archmont…after she was an adult. Just wondering whether you knew about that.”
“No,” Blackstone said. “I wonder if she was an adopted child…sometimes they change their names after they discover who their natural parents were.”
“Could be,” Julia said. “Maybe you can ask her when you see her next. Which I am assuming will be soon, judging from what I heard. When I interviewed the apartment manager at Vinnie’s apartment complex he mentioned you.”
“Oh? By name?”
“No,” Julia said, trying to be upbeat. “He said he was pretty sure that Vinnie ‘had a boyfriend.’ That’s how he put it. Nice, huh? You’re no longer the defense lawyer, you’re the ‘boyfriend.’ Thought you ought to know.”
“Vinnie’s in lockup now,” Blackstone said bluntly. “They caught her trying to leave the United States at the Canadian border. I’m just coming back from an emergency detention hearing. Judge Templeton revoked bail. He’s now considering a motion by the government to inform the jury of all this at trial. If he grants the motion and tells the jury, she’s going to be in deep trouble.”
“I’m sorry, J.D.,” Julia said. “Really, I am.”
“On the other hand,” Blackstone said, “who knows. Maybe there won’t be a trial.” He had a strange smile on his face when he said that. Julia gave him a puzzled look and went back to her document review.
When Blackstone was back in his office, he plunked down in his executive chair and dialed Tully. He got his voice mail.
“The minute you get anything more on Langley, please let me know, Tully,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”
Then his intercom buzzed. It was Frieda.
“Detective Cheski is on the line, from the DC Police Department.”
Blackstone took the call.
“Professor,” Cheski said. “I’ve got some good news about your shooting out at the equine center.”
“Great,” Blackstone said. “What do you have?”
“We’ve gone through literally hundreds of checks on white trucks and vans registered within a fifty-mile radius of the shooting,” Detective Cheski said. “You can’t imagine how many vehicles with that kind of description there are in Northern Virginia.”
“I can take a wild guess,” Blackstone replied.
“Then we cross-referenced those owners with registered gun owners,” Cheski continued. “On the happenstance that we might get a match of both a vehicle type that you described and a registration of an AK-47, which we know was the weapon used.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Blackstone said. “Any luck?”
“Not yet. But we have three suspects in particular who lived less than ten miles from the shooting with similar vehicle types who had various gun registrations—although no known AK-47s. Anyway, we are now checking alibis on where they were and what they were doing at the time of the shooting. I get the feeling that something is going to break soon.”
“I bet you’re right,” Blackstone said.
“Anyway,” Cheski said. “I didn’t want you to think you were being ignored.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Blackstone said. “In fact, if you want to, you can just skip my shooting case completely and put all your energy into the Vinnie Archmont trial instead.”
“Sorry that I can’t oblige you on that,” Cheski said with a chuckle. “But I will be in the courtroom, at that trial date, as scheduled. Too bad you’ll probably be on the losing side.”
“Just out of curiosity,” Blackstone said, “do any of your three suspects in my shooting seem to have any connection with the Smithsonian crimes?”
“We’re checking for that,” Cheski said. “I will let you know immediately if we find anything.”
“Thanks for calling, Detective,” Blackstone said, and then hung up the phone.
Jason strode into Bl
ackstone’s office with a printed piece of paper.
“Sit down, Jason,” Blackstone said and motioned for his summary. Jason reached over the desk and handed it to him.
“I wanted to review some things with you,” Blackstone said. “You’ve been going through the FBI and police reports, crime lab records, evidence records, almost as much as I have.”
Jason nodded.
“Let’s go over some things together,” Blackstone said. “How many forensic reports do we have?”
“Well,” Jason said. “Let’s see…there was the report on the drinking glass—that came back negative. Blood splatter analysis. It was all Horace Langley’s blood. No one else’s. A report on some DNA inadvertently picked up from some of the investigating officers at the scene—one sweat drip from one of the crime lab technicians, Bert Thompson, and the other from Detective Cheski, both of them on the crime scene. There was a report indicating the presence of a partial fingerprint on a doorknob that they figured was from FBI Agent Ralph Johnson when he came in before he put on the gloves. Then there was a report on numerous fingerprints of Horace Langley all over the place—on several areas of the office. Of course there is the ballistics report on the bullets. One shooter, shooting from one direction, directly at Langley’s chest. The report dusting for fingerprints on the side door activated by the keypad. No discernible prints were detected. Lastly, the autopsy protocol from the medical examiner. I think that’s it.”
“Just checking,” Blackstone said. Then he picked up Jason’s summary. “You sure this is completely accurate?”
“Sure I’m sure,” he answered, now a little nervous.
“Okay. I trust you,” Blackstone said with a reassuring smile. “Now, how about your research on Savannah, Georgia?”
Jason flipped open his steno pad.
“Okay, here’s what I found,” he said. “The Solomon’s Lodge No. 1 of Savannah is America’s oldest continuously operating Freemasons’ Lodge.”
“Interesting,” Blackstone said. “Anything else?”
“Just this,” Jason said. “Savannah, in the 1700s was the site of the first appearance of ‘speculative Freemasonry’ when it arrived here in the colonies from England.”
Blackstone smiled.
“Good work,” he said. Then he dismissed him.
The criminal law professor reviewed the summary that Jason had prepared.
Then he read it again.
And then a third time. And that is when he was able to break into a smile.
After that, he picked up the telephone and dialed the telephone number of federal prosecutor Henry Hartz.
CHAPTER 54
While Blackstone was waiting for the secretary at the U.S. Attorney’s office to transfer the call to Henry Hartz, Blackstone was looking over Jason’s summary once again:
CHRONOLOGY REGARDING HORACE LANGLEY’S OFFICE
11:30 a.m.—Horace Langley arrives at his office
3:45 p.m.—Vinnie Archmont arrives
4:20 p.m.—Vinnie leaves
7:45 p.m.—Security guard William Portley checks in with Horace Langley
MIDNIGHT
12:50 a.m.—Probable time of death per medical examiner’s report
1:15 a.m.—Security guard Jerry Lamont discovers Langley’s body & calls District of Columbia police dispatch
1:22 a.m.—District of Columbia patrol officers Blunt and Janovak arrive
1:47 a.m.—FBI Agent Ralph Johnson arrives at scene, with Special Agent Bob Vorhees
1:59 a.m.—Crime lab team arrives from the FBI: technicians Bert Thompson, and Lamar Linney, and crime lab chief Corbin Anglor. Forensic sweep of the room begins; District of Columbia police photographer arrives for forensic photos
2:44 a.m.—District of Columbia Detective Victor Cheski arrives
3:20 a.m.—Following interrogation, security guards Lamont and Portley are released and allowed to go home
3:30 a.m.—Police photographer leaves the scene
6:12 a.m.—Forensic analysis of crime scene complete; all crime lab staff from FBI leave
6:13 a.m.—FBI agents Ralph Johnson and Bob Vorhees leave
6:15 a.m.—Detective Cheski secures the scene and leaves
Then he heard Hartz pick up the line.
“Henry,” Blackstone said when the Assistant U.S. Attorney answered the phone.
“What do you want, Blackstone?”
“Just wanted to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“You are going to lose this case.”
There was a pause on the other end. Then Henry Hartz sort of guffawed.
But Blackstone was looking down at the summary that Jason had drafted.
“And when you realize that all is lost—when everything in your legal career begins to look the darkest and the most dreadful, then, Henry, that is exactly when, more than anything, you are going to want to talk with me. And do you know what?”
Hartz didn’t respond.
“I am going to stand there with you and look you in the eye—and I am going to have a talk with you.”
“Blackstone,” Hartz said, “either you are going a little crazy—and I wouldn’t doubt that a bit—either that, or else you are trying to pull some really lame psych-out trick on me. Some kind of psychological manipulation. Either way, I really don’t care. Blackstone, you can’t psych me. So don’t waste my time with pranks like this anymore. You’ve got a client facing the death chamber. If I were you, I’d be doing double-time trying to help my client. Not that it’s going to help in the end. We will get a conviction. But maybe you can mount enough of a legal defense not to embarrass yourself…and save what’s left of your legal career.”
Then Hartz remembered something.
“By the way, I’ve sent a courier from my office over to yours. He’s bringing you a load of documents.”
“Sounds like fun,” Blackstone said. “I love being buried alive in useless paperwork. What’s this all about?”
“I’ve decided,” Hartz said, “to furnish you with a complete set of records of the FBI’s physical evidence inventory room for the last twelve months. Just to prove that we are not covering up anything in this moronic drinking glass evidence you’ve complained about—we both know that issue is a complete and total red herring. Anyway, when you and I see each other on the first day of trial, I don’t want to hear any more whining from you about the missing drinking glass and how you think something sinister is going on just because we can’t find it.”
“Let’s put it this way, Henry,” Blackstone said. “When you and I see each other on the first day of trial—I’ll guarantee one thing.”
“And that would be what?”
“I won’t be whining,” Blackstone said.
After Hartz hung up the phone, Blackstone buzzed Julia. He asked her for the name and telephone number of Vinnie’s apartment manager. He called the number and got his voice mail.
“Yes, this is J.D. Blackstone,” he announced in his message for the apartment manager. “I am the lawyer for Vinnie Archmont, one of your tenants. Her apartment is number 101, just down the hall from yours. I know my partner, Julia Robins, has already interviewed you, but I needed just a few minutes of your time. Give me a call.”
Blackstone left the apartment manager his home phone and cell phone numbers.
Less than an hour later, the courier arrived with a large package from the U.S. Attorney’s Office.
Blackstone opened it up. Inside a box there was a stack of records about ten inches thick. On the top of the stack there was a typed sheet that read United States of America v. Vinnie Archmont: “Government Disclosure of Evidence Room Records for Twelve Month Period—Six Months Prior to Date of Criminal Incident and Six Months Post Criminal Incident.”
Then Blackstone strode down to Julia’s office. She was clearing off her desk for the day.
“Sorry to do this to you,” he said. “But I need your help with some records that just came in on Vinnie’s case. More
government discovery. This time it’s records of their evidence room. You know, because I raised a ruckus about the missing drinking glass that had been at the scene of the crime. I’m sure there’s nothing in these documents. But if we both take a pile and start reviewing them, it will go twice as fast.”
“Twice as fast for you, you mean,” Julia said. Then she nodded and added, “Fine. Let’s get to it.” She stood up from her desk and started walking down to Blackstone’s office, following him.
“How about I order some dinner in for both of us while we’re working?” he said over his shoulder.
“Thanks anyway,” she said. “But let’s just get this over with. I’ll save dinner for when I am back in my apartment with my pj’s on and my cat curled up next to me.”
“Alright. Just asking,” Blackstone said.
The two of them sat down in Blackstone’s office, with Julia in a chair facing the desk and Blackstone at his desk. They divided the stack of documents into two groups. Julia was to review the stack of records for the six months leading up to the day of the murder, and Blackstone took the records from the day of the crime to the present.
An hour passed with only the sound of flipping pages as they scanned each of the evidence room reports, one by one. After another half-an hour, Julia looked up from her pile.
“You have FBI evidence records, right?” she asked.
Blackstone nodded.
“So do I,” Julia said. “All of them records from the federal facility where they keep the physical evidence. FBI records—all except one.”
The Rose Conspiracy Page 28